


Fit for Duty

by darlingargents



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Sex, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Gunplay, Homophobia, Less than canon-typical violence, M/M, Oral object insertion, Painful Sex, Pre-Canon, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24924235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/pseuds/darlingargents
Summary: Fuck, what is life if not the same as going to war? Things should fucking make sense. Point your gun at someone, shoot them, their head blows up. Cause and effect. Ray knows about that. The logical process of A to B, and eventually to F and to Z. It makes sense.The fact that Ray is on his knees with an officer’s cock shoved down his throat doesnotmake sense.
Relationships: Ray Person/Original Male Character
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Fit for Duty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pickling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickling/gifts).



Ray isn’t entirely sure how he got here.

The thing is — fuck, what is life if not the same as going to war? Things should fucking make sense. Point your gun at someone, shoot them, their head blows up. Cause and effect. Ray knows about that. The logical process of A to B, and eventually to F and to Z. It makes sense.

The fact that Ray is on his knees with an officer’s cock shoved down his throat does  _ not _ make sense.

He doesn’t even know who the guy is, just that he’s visiting. He’s in a fucking civvie suit, so Ray doesn’t even know his rank. But he’s high up enough to get his own private tent, off to the side, with all kinds of fancy shit hanging around. He’d introduced himself as Kinnear, swirling his glass of whiskey like a bougie cunt, and told Ray, casual as anything, that he  _ knew _ .

Ray had asked what he knew, sir. Kinnear had taken another sip of his whiskey and smacked his lips, spit flying off and landing on the sandy ground.

“That you’re the best damn cocksucker in this battalion,” he’d said, and Ray’s breath had frozen in his lungs.

So he hadn’t had a choice, really. He didn’t make it through basic, through every other level of training, through Afghanistan, and all the way here to get shipped home before they get around to invading Iraq solely because he used to take it up the ass in college. (And after college. And every time he’s been on leave. But who’s counting. Not him, that’s for sure — even he doesn’t know how many times it’s happened.)

Kinnear had told Ray to suck his cock. To make it the best damn blowjob he’s ever had in his life. So that’s what Ray is doing, sweat dripping down his temple that’s only half from the desert heat, listening to Kinnear swallow his whiskey above. His jaw is stretched and hurting from Kinnear’s cock, a half-remembered feeling. It’s been ages since he gave a blowjob, but you never forget. It’s like riding a bike. Or a dick.

The point is, he thinks he’s making good on what he’s been told to do. He’s licking and sucking like his life depends on it, opening his throat to take Kinnear’s cock deeper, pulling back to suck on the head while he jerks the shaft with his hand. He takes it deep and hums around it and Kinnear groans low in his throat. Ray hears a clink of the whiskey glass being set down, and looks up.

Kinnear has a Glock in his hand.

Ray almost bites down on his dick, and stops his horrified reaction before he can do so. Which is good, because he’s pretty sure that biting Kinnear’s dick off mid-blowjob while Kinnear is holding a handgun is a one-way ticket to a shallow grave somewhere around here. He pulls off Kinnear’s dick instead, keeping up the hand strokes and looking up. He watches as Kinnear checks that the Glock is unloaded, and resists the urge to say something. For once in his entire life, he’s not going to make a snappy comment.

“I’ll tell you what,” Kinnear says. “You keep sucking my cock like the pretty little bitch you are, and tell me how good it is for you, and I won’t fuck your ass until you cry while you choke on my gun. How does that sound?”

The words are a knife to Ray’s gut. He almost throws up right there on Kinnear’s dick, and wouldn’t that be another wonderful way to die, ruining the mood for the officer extorting you for sex. His half-hard cock — an automatic response to having a dick in his mouth — flags a little; even he can’t make a joke about finding this exciting. He pushes back the roiling fury in his stomach and says, “Sounds good, sir.”

Kinnear nods and crosses his arms, the Glock still in his hand. “Heard you had a mouth on you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Guess even you smart guys know when to shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Christ.” Kinnear rolls his eyes. “Make this goddamn interesting or I’ll get you bent over this table. Got it?”

Ray can’t even remember the last time he was so afraid of a gun. All dirty thoughts are out of his head; he has no idea what to say. “Uh,” he says, and starts stroking Kinnear’s dick again while he tries desperately to think. Interesting — the fuck does he mean by  _ interesting _ ? “Great cock, sir. Just stupendous.”

Kinnear laughs. It does not sound entirely pleased. Ray wraps his mouth around the head of Kinnear’s cock, the taste of precome and sweat landing on his tongue, and sucks it while he tries to think. He pulls off with a pop and says. “Tastes great, sir.”

Kinnear doesn’t look pleased, but his cock is indicating interest. Maybe Ray is on the right path. “Very big, sir. Biggest — well.”

_ Shit. _

“Finish your thought, Person,” Kinnear says, an edge in his voice. “Please. Is my cock the biggest you’ve ever had in your mouth? Tell the truth.”

Kinnear really is not very big. It’s a respectable size, Ray thinks. Proportionate to the rest of him. But it’s only maybe six or seven inches. It’s not even close to the most difficult dick he’s deepthroated. Let alone had in his ass. He should lie.

Ray has rarely let what he  _ should _ say dictate what he ends up saying. And he thinks he maybe doesn’t have quite the survival instinct he’s supposed to have.

“Yes, sir, I believe so. Your six-inch pocket rocket is going to ruin my throat more than a night at the leather bar by the—”

The hit comes totally out of nowhere. One moment he’s talking, the next his face is a mass of pain and he’s on the ground, ears ringing, hands clutching his cheek. There’s a bit of blood on his fingers, he thinks, as he tries and fails to sit up.

Clearly he went too far. And apparently that means he got hit in the face by the Glock. Great. The unstoppable mouth of Ray Person has done it again.

“You’ve lost your chance, Person,” Kinnear says. He’s pointing the unloaded gun at Ray and Ray almost wants to run, to let Kinnear chase him with an unloaded Glock and his cock out. But he knows what will happen if he does. Dishonourable discharge. Rejected by the Marines and by the peace-loving tree-humping liberals alike. Nowhere to go.

He gets to his feet, swaying a little. He’s going to need to get his face checked out. Maybe the rest of his head, too, if his blurry vision is anything to go by. Kinnear grabs him by the back of the neck and bends him like a doll over a table in the corner, sweeping maps and various equipment onto the sandy ground to make room. There’s a book right under Ray’s cheek as he’s pressed down. Kinnear reaches around his hips and undoes his pants, shoving them down to his ankles.

Ray has barely processed what is happening, but as he feels Kinnear spreading his cheeks, hot desert air hitting his asshole, he’s struck with a sudden, horrible urge to run. He hasn’t gotten fucked in years. Hasn’t even thought about it, really. Whenever he has, he’s assumed it wouldn’t happen again for years more, at some point in the distant future when he gets out and the Marine Corps isn’t breathing down his neck.

And now Kinnear is coming around to his face and holding the Glock out to him. “Open,” he says, and Ray opens his mouth. Kinnear feeds the gun in, and says, “Hold it there.” And goes back to Ray’s ass, leaving his mouth stretched open around the Glock. He adjusts himself a little, props himself up on his elbows so his jaw isn’t stretched painfully wide around the muzzle. He keeps it in his mouth.

There’s something slick being pressed inside him. Ray has only a moment to hope that Kinnear is going to change his mind before two fingers are shoved inside him. He groans in pain around the gun, spit dripping out of his mouth and onto the table below him. Kinnear thrusts a couple of times and seems to decide that’s enough, and withdraws his fingers.

There’s no time to panic about it. A moment later, Kinnear is pressing himself inside, all the way, in a single motion. It hurts. It really fucking hurts and Ray wants to scream, wants to hit something, wants to kick Kinnear in the balls and shoot him in the head and watch his brains paint the hot sand. But all he can do is choke on the gun, trying desperately not to bite down on instinct, as Kinnear shoves himself balls-deep in Ray’s ass and starts to fuck him with no finesse whatsoever. In and out like he’s opening and closing a drawer. It starts to hurt less after a few thrusts, as his body starts to relax and accommodate the cock inside it, but it doesn’t get any more interesting.

If this were any other sexual encounter, he’d be instructing, making it worth his time, because he would be calling it boring. But it’s not, and Kinnear is going to get what he wants and doesn’t care in the slightest if Ray enjoys the process or not. And unfortunately, his years-long dry spell (in his ass, at least) means that his dick is waking up, even as it’s uncomfortably trapped between the hard edge of the table and the rough fabric of his jacket. Kinnear’s thrusts push the gun deeper down his throat and, indirectly, rubs his cock against the table, and it’s enough that Ray thinks he actually might get off.

Which: how fucking pathetic is that? Coming just because some middle aged closet-case piece of shit fucks your ass in the least interesting way possible? Ray would be offended on his own behalf if he had had any say whatsoever in this situation. As is, he did not. There’s not much of a point in being upset by his body’s reaction to a fucked up situation. He closes his eyes, lets the gun grow warm against his tongue, and lets himself be fucked.

“You’re getting hard,” Kinnear says, breathing hard. Ray thinks it’s kind of pathetic how out of breath his is from such a mediocre fuck. He hopes this guy isn’t leading anyone into battle. “Fucking slut. You gonna come for me?”

Ray can’t respond with the gun still forcing his mouth wide, so he doesn’t. A hand wraps around the back of his neck, forcing his head down, clacking his teeth against the metal of the Glock.

“I asked you a question,” Kinnear says, his voice far closer this time. Ray can feel the weight of him bent over his body as his thrusts slow down and get deeper. He opens his mouth around the gun and makes a garbled noise, more spit dripping off his lips. Kinnear reaches around to pull out the gun and tosses it aside, and Ray coughs, his jaw screaming in pain. He really fucking hopes he didn’t tear anything.

“Yeah,” he says. He’s out of witty retorts. He just wants this to be over.

Kinnear groans and Ray rolls his eyes, disgusted. The thrusts speed up again, going deep, starting to hurt more. Ray grits his teeth and bears it, and the angle changes a bit. There’s actual pressure against his cock, enough to actually get him off, and he wriggles his hips just a little to get into a better position, because if he doesn’t get at least a single fucking orgasm out of this, he’s gonna be really fucking pissed.

The new angle is better, and Ray closes his eyes and moves along with the thrusts, imagining a much better place, pretending this is a bar bathroom somewhere in California and the guy inside him would stop if he asked for it. He imagines someone good-looking, someone who would manhandle him in the way that he actually likes.

His mind drifts to some of the guys here. He shuts that down real fucking quick. Not what he needs right now.

Just as he thinks he might be getting there, that he might get a decent orgasm out of this after all, Kinnear’s hand wraps around his neck, cutting off his air, pulling his head back and Ray up off the table, into his chest. Ray tries to breathe through his compressed airway, and black spots start to crowd the edges of his vision as his lungs beg for oxygen.

“You fucking slut,” Kinnear says, burying himself to the hilt and coming inside Ray, and Ray goes off like a rocket, come spraying across the table as he feels Kinnear’s cock pulsing inside him. Kinnear lets his throat go a moment later and he wheezes painfully, collapsing onto his elbows on the table as his vision blurs. Kinnear pulls out of him and he feels come dripping down his leg.

“Thank you for your service,” Kinnear says, and laughs at his own joke. Ray bites down every single fucking thing he wants to say to that, and stands up to leave, pulling up his pants and doing up his belt. He’ll deal with the mess inside when he’s had a second to breathe outside of this goddamn tent.

“See you soon,” Kinnear says as Ray goes to leave, and he pauses with his hand on the flap. He wants to ask.

He’s not going to ask. Ray steps out and blinks at the sun, and wonders how much he’s bruised, how much shit he’s going to get.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll deal with that when it happens.


End file.
